


I am Alayne Stone: Dispatches from the Vale

by ReichenbachToTheFuture



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 4, Power Imbalance, asoiaf spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReichenbachToTheFuture/pseuds/ReichenbachToTheFuture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Baelish and his ward, the bastard Alayne Stone, tour the Vale and play a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> Originally begun in the summer of 2014 on Tumblr at iamalaynestone. This series works off of the story arc as presented in the HBO series, but also uses details from the novels beyond what has been shown in the show, and is not spoiler-free.

_I am Alayne Stone_ , she thought as she descended the stair toward her uncle and Lord Robert of the Vale. Poor, sickly little Sweetrobin, who dissolved into slobbering bouts of shaking, who tore at her shift in the small hours to claw and bite at her chest in search of mother’s milk she could never hope to provide, who destroyed her last hope of seeing home with kicks and screams in the snow. With Lysa gone — _he tried to reason with her, promised her she was the only woman he ever loved_ — the miserable boy was hers to take care of. Hers and Littlefinger’s.

This journey will be hard going, Alayne considered. Even the ride to the Gates of the Moon was a treacherous descent. Is that my uncle’s design? To have little Lord Robin teeter off his donkey on the narrow mountain path down? She had no great love for the child, but child he was, as she was once, maybe a hundred lifetimes ago. Alayne had patience enough for the boy’s weakness, but Littlefinger… If a second tragic accident were to befall the Arryns, her tears would not be enough to save them. He couldn’t be so bold, could he?

She thought back to when a girl called Sansa Stark had seen the look in Lord Baelish’s eyes as he stood close, so close, to miserable Lysa Arryn. It was wild, unfocused, full of terrible promise. She remembered how she saw him tense for the briefest of moments before those eyes flashed bright and deft hands with rings on the fingers pushed just so, and in a flutter of fabric — like wings, she remembered thinking — Lysa was gone.

And now, as her footsteps took her closer, Alayne Stone could see the look in Littlefinger’s eyes now as they fixed themselves upon her. The interest there, the curiosity, the pride. And something more, something she’d seen before: deep in the bowels of the dark ship that had sailed her away from King’s Landing, when he came to her chambers after she had saved him and herself from the suspicion of the Lords Declarant, and once, once in the hushed silence of the falling snow…

She should have blushed. A true lady would have under such scrutiny. But bastard girl Alayne simply met his eyes with a surety that Sansa Stark, the poor caged bird, never posessed. Alayne took in Petyr’s face, took in Robin’s small, frail form, his cape near drowning him in rich folds of fabric.

 _No_ , she decided. _Robin will live. I will see to it._ She smiled sweetly at this false family she had chosen, and crushed thoughts of laughing brothers and an unruly sister beneath her feet.

"Shall we go?"


	2. The Descent

In an instant and a lifetime, they reached the cliff face, and the wooden basket that would take them the six hundred feet straight down to Sky. After that came the long mule ride through narrow, rocky steps all the way down to the Gates of the Moon. And then, and then… _And then what?_ Alayne wondered. _If I ask where this tour of the Vale is taking us, would Littlefinger tell me true? Would I even be able to tell if he fed me lies?_

Beside her, Robin began to shiver. It was beginning, she knew, but perhaps she could stop it before his fit overtook him fully. Her uncle must have sensed it, too, he bristled just slightly and his eyes darted to the side to catch Alayne’s eyes.

”Lord Robert, would you ride down with me?” Alayne asked, easily forcing her voice to waver sweetly for the little lord’s benefit, tapping into a fear that was very real, locked away in a secret place inside herself. “I don’t know that I could stand the drop without the Defender of the Vale’s arms about me. I’m ever so scared, do you see me tremble?”

She tensed her hand before his face and made it shake until he brought his own bony, trembling fingers to hers and clasped her hand in both of his. The boy sniffled loudly, a thin ooze beginning to drip out of his nose from the chill and his own frailty.

"Don’t worry," he said, finding his voice, the faraway look in his glassy eyes focusing. "I’ll protect you. Even though your hair looks different." Alayne’s smile in response was forced. His words were innocent enough, but Robin must not speak so frankly, she knew. She was Alayne Stone. To be anyone else was a greater danger than she could stomach.

He had to learn to be quiet, and soon. But first, they had to make it down from the Eyrie.

"Thank you, my brave lord," she cooed, wrapping her arms around him to pull him to her chest. What had Lord Baelish said as Dontos lay dying? _A bag of dragons buys a man’s silence for a while, but a well placed quarrel buys it forever_. Alayne wondered how long a while could last. As he breathed wetly against her, his tears and snot smearing her cape, she looked to Littlefinger and hoped that he could read her eyes.

 _Don’t_ , they screamed. _Don’t do anything. Not yet. Trust me._

His own grey-green answer was difficult to read, at first dark and hard, then dissolving into something not unlike acceptance, but there was no finality in his eyes. They would discuss Robin’s future further, she knew.

He would come to her as she sewed, or as she brushed her hair, or perhaps even as she dressed. His voice would be a low rumble, his ringed fingers pressed together. He would dare her to tear her gaze away from the hunger in his. She would hold it, resolutely. She would practice making her face a mask, as much for herself as for him. She did not truly want to know how those eyes taking her in, assessing her, made her feel.

For the moment, she nodded once at her uncle, not looking away even as little Robin nosed his way through her cape to streak snot and spittle between her breasts. Beside her, she heard the creak of the basket’s rickety door opening.

“Come now, Lord Robert, let’s depart. I’m so frightened, be sure to hold me the whole way down.”


	3. The Keeper

They had reached the Gates of the Moon just before nightfall, when the fading light bathed the world in blue and gold. Mya Stone had helped them down the worst of it, a rugged, vibrant little woman as strong as the mountain itself and clad in leathers. Alayne had loved her instantly, but barely spoke to her, too terrified that this bastard girl would see her plain, that she would see Alayne wasn’t a real Stone, wasn’t a real anything.

But Mya had been courteous. In truth, she had looked near through Alayne as if there wasn’t a single remarkable thing about her. It had been a most welcome feeling.

Now, with the castle well in sight, Alayne sat astride her mule with Robin curled up half in her lap with his head resting against her, having been lulled to soft, stuttering snores by the rolling clop-clop, clop-clop of hooves. She turned to her uncle, face impassive, the white knuckles of his hands the only thing betraying his mislike of the journey. Though he slept soundly, Alayne cupped a hand over Sweetrobin’s ear before she spoke. He has no maester’s mind, but he knows too much already.

"It is kind of Nestor Royce to receive us, uncle." Royce was the caretaker of the Gates of the Moon, though he did not hold it. He had ruled the Vale in all but name when Jon Arryn was Hand, had even hoped once to wed Lysa Arryn after her lord husband tasted the Tears of Lys. And yet, Lord Baelish had won his favor.

Littlefinger arched an eyebrow. “Aye, indeed it is.”

 

 

They were received by Lord Nestor and his daughter, the Lady Myranda, with a humble feast of white cheese and crusty bread, quail, potatoes, and sweet cakes. Alayne was grateful for the sweetmilk she had given Lord Robert as he awoke. _He’s smiling and quiet_ , she sighed to herself beside him at the table. _And if his eyes are heavy-lidded, well, he’s just made a long and difficult descent_. It was a dangerous game to play with strong potions such as these, but if she gave him a pinch at a time, it would not harm him. How long it would last them was up to the little lord himself.

Lady Myranda was talking amiably, recounting one tale or another, but Alayne’s eyes were on her uncle. They were here for a reason, she knew that much. They had just escaped suspicion, leaving the safety of the Eyrie had to have been a calculated risk. But to what end? Was it for Nestor, or for his daughter? Lord Baelish found himself again a bachelor, and Alayne imagined the things a man of Littlefinger’s experience may wish for. She remembered Lysa’s cries on her wedding night, endless wails of _Petyr, Petyr, Petyr…_

She took in Myranda’s face, dark and comely, with a fire in her eyes that showed she had wit. Alayne noted her thick, tumbling brown curls, the soft curves of her body. She was beautiful, and Alayne watched her uncle watch her all through dinner, searching his eyes for that unnameable something she herself had come to know.

 

 

Later that evening, after Robin had been abed for hours, the candle in Alayne’s small chambers burned low, the wax spreading in tendrils onto the metal plate below. She had been sewing since supper, working on a new dress in a simple dark green, the delicate mockingbirds she was embroidering on the collar were the only real finery about it. Alayne Stone was no lady, she couldn’t hope for beautiful things. Her fingertips were red with overuse, but she dared not stop. He still had not come.

Finally, like a held breath suddenly released, the knock came. He entered slowly, with footsteps that barely made a sound. He kept a good distance between them, hands behind his back, standing halfway between the door and the bed. "I was pleased to see our lord Robert in such good spirits at dinner," he began. _Was this a concession? An apology?_ Alayne found herself sitting up straighter.

“I took the liberty of procuring some sweetsleep for his milk from Maester Colemon’s chambers, for those times when Lord Robert may… misremember. Enough for our needs, but not so much as to arouse the maester’s suspicions in our absence.” Littlefinger stepped closer, but said nothing. “It is truly a remarkable medicine, uncle,” she pressed on, a strange pride setting alight within her. “He smiles, he eats, and he does not speak.” Her uncle paused.

“Very well done, Alayne.” He drew a breath, slow like a man asleep. “It is fortunate that Robert has such a sweet, selfless companion.” The candle flickered, down to nearly nothing now, and maybe it was the near dark that made Alayne brave.

“And it is fortunate that you have Lord Royce’s support as Lord Protector in these uncertain times.” A quirk of the mouth was her reward, and she chased it. She had to know. “And what gift will you offer the Royces in return for their friendship?”

Littlefinger laughed then, a brief rumbling felt more than heard.

“You are becoming as clever as you are curious, sweetling. Would you like to know why we’re here?” She did, she really did, but she did not want to seem some stupid, overeager child. She simply squared her jaw and nodded.

Her uncle unclasped his hands and moved to stand right in front of her, to show her a rolled parchment. The crackling sound of it unfurling filled the room.

“This paper is worth more than all the dragons in the Iron Bank to a proud man like Royce.”

Alayne read it quickly. “You’re naming him Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. It will be the seat of House Royce.”

"Forever and ever," her uncle agreed. "And do you see the signature, my sweet?" He sat beside her, holding the parchment before her eyes. Understanding began to prickle her skin.

“Yours, as Lord Protector. Not Robert’s.”

"Why?" He was smiling now. He rolled the parchment up again and set it aside.

"So his allegiance is to you. Whatever the Lords Declarant may say, House Royce of the Gates of the Moon will be yours. They have to be, if anything were to happen to you, Lord Nestor’s claim is lost." And there it was, that intensity in Littlefinger’s eyes that she could not yet define. She held his gaze, the firelight dancing between them, as he brought a hand to her cheek and kept it there.

"You, my dearest, will be remarkable." And then there were lips on her forehead, and it would have reminded her of her father’s kisses but for the sharp huff of breath he let out against her skin or the way his fingertips tightened just so in her hair.

And just as suddenly as he’d arrived, he was gone and she was left alone, needle still poised between her finger and thumb. Alayne didn’t realize her eyes were closed until she opened them to an empty room.

 _Not for Myranda_ , she thought later, as sleep finally claimed her.


	4. The Gates of the Moon

Lord Baelish planned on presenting Nestor Royce with his thoughtful gift in the evening over a few cups of arbor gold, and so Alayne found herself that morning dressing to meet their hosts and break her fast. She must perform her mummer’s farce flawlessly, for the Royces and for her uncle, if she was to remain his — his what? Niece, companion, co-conspirator?

As her fingers fought to lace herself up, she wondered how Shae fared, if indeed she still lived. King’s Landing could make a corpse of anyone: man, woman or child. _But Alayne Stone never had a handmaide_ n, she chided herself. _There’s no point in wasting thoughts on a stranger._

It was blissful relief to come down to the hall to see that Lord Robert had chosen to remain abed, still resting from the previous day’s ride. With any luck, he will sleep until supper. But her relief withered as soon as it bloomed when she caught sight of Myranda Royce, laughing open-mouthed at her own jape and brushing her fingers against Littlefinger’s for a moment.

She searched his face for something, anything, but he merely smiled an unreadable smile that did not reach his eyes. Alayne misliked this scene, even — perhaps especially — fat Nestor Royce’s fat face, beaming over his porridge beside his daughter like the cat who got the cream. _You see? After all this time, no matter what you call yourself, you’re still a stupid girl_.

Stupid she may be, but she couldn’t be reckless. So Alayne affixed a smile firmly on her face and took her seat beside her uncle, nodded her thanks at her hosts, and put her spoon to her mouth to give herself time to think. _How much did he want from Nestor Royce? Giving Royce the Gates would buy his swords, did Littlefinger need his sheath as well?_ Alayne near shocked herself with the baseness of her thoughts, but she knew without a doubt that she could not be replaced.

She had chained herself to Littlefinger, she had said as much to him at the Eyrie after his exoneration. Sansa Stark she could not be, and Alayne Stone was no one without Petyr Baelish. A bastard, and friendless. If her uncle did wed the lady Royce, young and handsome and clever, what need would he have of Alayne?

She shifted just so in her seat beside him, and pressed her thigh softly, deliberately against his under the thick wooden table. She felt him tense for a moment, an energy sparking between them, but he did not move away. As if from a distance, she heard the boom of Nestor Royce’s voice.

"And I don’t know where Lord Baelish has been hiding you, my dear Alayne — it is Alayne, yes? — you must tell us about yourself.”

They had never discussed the particulars of her identity, but she had no time to be frightened.

“My parents are both dead,” she began. Her eyes welled up thinking of the blinding sun that terrible day in the Sept of Baelor, and of a woman floating lifelessly down a cold and murky river. “When my mother took ill, she told me to seek out Lord Baelish when the time came. I had heard tales of my uncle’s kindness and generosity since I was a child, how he shook big hands in King’s Landing but never forgot about the Fingers. And when I did come to him, all the stories proved true: he took me in with open arms and without hesitation. I am truly fortunate.”

"What a charming maid," Lord Nestor said. "And how do you find keeping a ward, Lord Baelish?" As Alayne let out the breath she was holding, she realized she could feel fingertips drawing circles on the inside of her knee.

"Well, my lord, I must say, I do rather like the life of a family man."


	5. New Friends

Lords Baelish and Royce were cloistered in the latter’s chambers; Alayne knew her uncle would be sowing the soil of their friendship all day. Nestor Royce must become a good friend indeed, in case his cousin Bronze Yohn — whose son Weymar had so enchanted silly Sansa Stark at Winterfell, and who knew Alayne’s true identity — ever decided he no longer enjoyed the Mockingbird’s song.

And so afternoon found Alayne and Lady Myranda with time enough to tour the castle. It was a wide, squat thing, like the Royce men themselves, and bigger than the Eyrie. There were square towers at the corners, a gatehouse, and a yard, but it was the moat that made the Gates a castle to remember. 

It was wide and deep, with dark blue water surrounded by lush greenery, touched with frost at the first cold blush of winter. The sun reflected beautifully against the water’s surface, bright gold rippling softly with the wind. Alayne walked with Myranda along a footpath between the castle’s walls and the moat’s edge. She looked even more beautiful in the sunlight.

"Tell me, how do you find the castle?" Myranda’s voice was a song of its own. Alayne did not trust it, she’d heard her singing her tune to her uncle loud and clear.

Littlefinger had told her about Myranda as they made their way down to the Gates. _She likes to play the merry fool, he said, but underneath she’s shrewder than her father._

"It is lovely, my lady. I confess I am ill accustomed to homes so grand." She slipped into her role more comfortably with every word, hiding away distant memories of children’s laughter ringing within wide stone corridors. Myranda laughed amiably, her unrelenting charm grating Alayne’s nerves.

“Yes, I suppose you must be. And call me Randa, everyone does.” An offer of friendship; this bird was hopping into her cage on her own. Alayne smiled.

"Randa," she said, making a little show of trying the feel of it on her tongue. "I don’t have a nickname. I’m just Alayne."

"Well, just Alayne," Myranda echoed, as she interlocked their arms. "That will simply have to do. Now we’re friends, you must disclose your secrets, all of them." _No one could have thirst enough to drink all my secrets down, she thought. But I can offer you lies as sweet as wine._

"I… I suppose I could, since we’re friends." She let her words out slowly.

"Such an innocent flower, and so young. Have you any suitors knocking down your door? A squire, mayhap some strapping blacksmith’s boy?" She thought of Joffrey, of Tyrion, of The Hound, who burst through Sansa’s door when there was fire and fighting all around and everywhere. She thought of her uncle Petyr.

“No, my la— Randa. No one.”

"Come now, just Alayne, a beautiful, polished stone like you? I don’t believe it for a moment. I’ll get the truth from you yet. How about I go first?" Myranda paused, a smile making its leisurely way across her face. "I was married once, it seems half a hundred years ago now. Then I killed him."

Alayne couldn’t help the widening of her eyes. Myranda’s laugh was a loud, barking thing.

"Well, in a way. He died inside me, I swear by the Seven." Alayne let herself laugh along with her. "I suppose at least I know I’m not a bore beneath the furs. Of all the tragedies that could befall me, becoming a bore would be the absolute worst. Now it’s your turn, and tell me true."

Alayne blushed and spoke the first words that leapt to her mind.

“There was a kiss,” she whispered.

"Aha, the shy little maid’s been kissed, how very exciting. You must tell me every detail."

She thought of snow, of a castle she’d made with her own hands until her fingers froze within the soft leather of her gloves. She thought of footsteps soft on the stairs, of the man who’d been watching her.

"He was six and ten, a baker back in the Fingers, of a height with me. He had auburn hair." She tried to picture the boy she’d created. Despite her efforts, his hair faded to gray at the temples in her mind, what remained darkened, and he lost a few inches in height. "My mother was ill and he was so kind to me. He had flour on his hands. He touched my hair, twirled a lock in his fingers, and the flour stayed there when he let it go. He stood so close to me. He took my face in his hands, gentle and so quick I hardly knew it happened. I could feel my face getting dirty, but it was so exciting."

She could practically feel cold hands on her cheeks, nimble fingers sinking into her hair. "He told me I was more beautiful than anyone ever was, and then…"

"Do go on, dear. You’ve got us to the best part," Myranda urged her on, quirking an eyebrow. _Does she think she’s cracked me open like an egg?_

"Then," she blushed in earnest at the memory of the soft bristles of his beard against her skin, lips warm despite the cold, the taste of mint a tease against her mouth. How did it make her feel, then? How does it make her feel now? "His lips were on mine. My mouth was open — I had gasped when he touched my face — so we simply… fit together, in a way. It was a shock, like walking onto a skin rug with your stockings on. But it was soft, gentle even. I didn’t think he could be so gentle."

Alayne looked to Myranda, eyes full of dreamy-eyed wonder at the boy who never existed. "Is it that way always?" Again, Myranda laughed at the stupid bastard maid.

“Oh no, poor thing, not a bit. Only one man in a hundred kisses like he should. The rest suck your teeth out through your mouth or try to choke you with their tongues.” She smiled, and pulled Alayne closer against her side.

“If you remember one thing I tell you, let it be this: next chance you get, you get back to the Fingers and find your baker, and spend your life kissing him breathless.”


	6. The Open Cage

Alayne was taking down her hair when the knock came. She wore her hair simply, with a parting in the center, two thick, tightly rolled twists pulling the dark strands back. But as with all things, achieving simplicity was not always easy. It seemed like half a hundred well-hidden pins kept the twists in place and sent her curls cascading down to her waist. If she were a highborn lady, she might wear a silver pin. Perhaps a few, perhaps in the shape of little mockingbirds, nesting in her hair. But Alayne was no lady. She was as blank and bare as stone itself.

His footsteps, ever soft, came closer as Alayne unpinned her hair. He stopped to stand behind her as the last pin loosed her curls. She could see the reflection of his hands in the mirror, the candlelight catching on his rings. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t turn around, barely moved at all. She could feel him better than she could see him, anyway.

Her hair was all around her, peppered with loose tangles. _His fingers are twitching,_ she noticed. _He has a fascination with my hair whatever the color, at least that much is certain._

The silence hung warm and heavy around them, weighing down the very air. She wrapped it around herself. Alayne reached out one pale hand — mercifully, it was still, her movements deliberate — and wrapped her fingers around her comb.

Her eyes still on the mirror, she reached back and slipped it into his open hand. For a wild moment, Alayne didn’t know if he would close his fingers and take it, didn’t know if this stupid girl had gotten it all wrong again. But finally, close they did, tight as clenched teeth. He let out a breath and began to touch.

"How fares our Lord Royce? Is he pleased with your generosity, uncle?" She kept her face demure, her voice soft, her head down just slightly. But her eyes were on his hands, the fingers of one stroking through her hair from root to end, nearly forgetting the comb in the other.

"Oh yes, well pleased. He nearly broke his tongue thanking me. We have him now." We have him now. _We_ have him. Was that the way it was?

"Royce is a prideful man," she said carefully. "Sometimes prideful men like to return favors. He might seek to give you a gift of his own."

"Oh?" She couldn’t see it, but Alayne imagined his lip curling at one side in a smirk. "I already have his loyalty, which is in truth invaluable to me. What else could he have that I want?" What else, indeed.

"I can think of one gift who seems rather eager to be received," she muttered, struggling to maintain some semblance of neutrality. Sansa would have adored Myranda, Alayne thought. But Sansa lived in a dream.

His fingers never stilled in her hair, constant sensation and constant contact never giving her a moment of true focus. _This is what you really wanted, isn’t it? Him in your hands, yes, but yourself in his as well._

"I see. Tell me, what do you know?" Her uncle did love playing spies.

"First there was breakfast," she began. She blushed remembering his fingers on her knee, the same fingers that now kept stroking and combing and smoothing her hair, gentle and relentless. "Her laugh was too loud. She barely looked at anyone but you all morning, not even her father, though in truth he looked happy enough to watch the scene." She paused, her belly aflutter with emotions known and unknown. "She touched you. Your hand."

"She did." And I touched you, he did not say. Instead, he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, brushing the pad of his index finger around the shell of it.

"Later we took a walk around the grounds. We got to talking like fast friends. She’d like to see me gone, I should think, back to the Fingers. And I can think of only one reason why." At that, she saw his fingers tighten around the ends of her hair.

“And how did you draw that conclusion?” She would have to tell him all, though her conversation with Myranda had been the bawdiest she’d ever had, until now.

"We were swapping stories, uncle. She’d been married once before, the poor man died inside her, can you believe it? And I…" The shuddering breath she drew was not for show. Her words were harsh whispers, secrets quietly rattling in a cage. "I said you were a baker’s boy in the Fingers with auburn hair. Six and ten. I told her how this boy was kind in my darkest times, and that one day he touched my hair and took my face in his hands. I told her all about his lips on mine, how I couldn’t help but shudder, though I was so surprised."

He was cupping her cheek, now, and she leaned imperceptibly into his touch. She was playing and being played, she knew. It was a dizzying thrill to realize how little she cared.

”She said only one in a hundred men kissed like that. She said I should rush back to the Fingers the first chance I get and kiss that boy forever. She would have you for herself, her lord husband. She wants no part of me.”

Finally, she turned her head so she could meet his eyes. The grey-green had darkened, the blacks at the center grown large. Her comb had fallen, forgotten, to the floor below. The hand that remained on her cheek drew her face to him, to his belt, to his—

"What Lady Myranda can never understand," he near growled, "is that I want every part of you.”

Alayne gasped as she felt him hard and hot, even through his clothes. His fingers tightened against her scalp to press her cheek hard against him, once, before he spun her round by the shoulders and dropped down before her, his hands on her knees.

“Do you know how to touch yourself, my dear?” Oh, but these were waters uncharted. Margaery Tyrell had told Sansa how a maiden could place a pillow between her thighs and rock until something wonderful happened, but stupid Sansa had been too fearful to try it herself. But her own hands? They were good for sewing, but this was an art Alayne did not know. _Does Littlefinger mean to teach me?_ She found herself eager, her knees opening just so. Her hands held tight to her stool.

"I… I’ve heard about using a pillow. Between the legs. But I never tried." Littlefinger chuckled, not unkindly.

“Pillows are for little girls afraid of what they have.” He didn’t lift her skirts, but ran his palms up her thighs, slowly, as if she’d disappear if he moved too quickly.

Finally he reached her center, covering the whole of it with his palm. She could feel her pulse pounding through the slick flesh. He had to feel it, too, the sound of it was deafening in her ears. He took his hand away and Alayne very nearly whined at the loss, but before she could, his thumb started to trace up and down where he knew her folds to be, his other hand holding her dress tight against her skin.

"There is a beautiful jewel at the top, just here," He whispered, thumb beginning to trace a deliberate circle at just that spot. Sensation began to spike through her, sweat started to bead lightly along her hairline. "When you’re nice and wet thinking of your dear old uncle Petyr, take your fingertips and rub that jewel, in small circles, feel how lovely it is."

Her breath came shallow as he touched her expertly through her dress. She thought of the men Sansa had known. Loras Tyrell certainly wouldn’t know to do this for her. The Hound would have simply mounted her like a dog and been done with it. The Imp had experience enough for a hundred men, but he must have been somewhat limited by the size of his fingers. And Joffrey… She shuddered to think of what Joffrey would have done to her.

And here and now, on his knees before her, was little Petyr Baelish, the most powerful man Westeros had never known, making her near forget them all.

"I want you to get to know this jewel of yours, Alayne," he rasped, thumb moving faster, his head resting on her thigh. "Wake up early on the morrow. We shall dine with the Royces before we continue our adventure. Dress in your shift and gown, but no smallclothes." She tossed her head back and a leg kicked out at the air of its own will before wrapping itself around Littlefinger’s back. "Then lay back, lift your pretty skirts, and learn yourself until you see stars, until your little fingers are slick all the way to your palm, as many times as you can manage, then come straight down to break your fast. Straight down, understand, no delay. I need to see your face the moment after you learn what wonders you can perform."

"If you keep going, uncle, you may just see a wonder for yourself." She shocked herself with her words, and wailed outright when suddenly, the hand against her center was gone.

Dimly, she could hear him tsk and let out a low laugh. She lifted her head to meet his eyes with something like a challenge.

"Ah, but where is the lesson in that, sweetling?" With some hesitation, he rose but stayed close, hands still on her knees, mouth by her ear. "Be at ease, my dear, trust that you are not the only one going to bed wanting. Quite the contrary, in fact. I want very, very much. But now is not the time to take, I fear. We leave for Gulltown on the morrow. We shall have rooms of our own, beautiful rooms, with fabrics and perfumes from the east and walls as thick as a giant’s neck."

His mint-clean breath was hot as a dragon’s on her cheek. When he straightened and stepped back, she felt she missed his presence in her space.

"And you’ll show me, there?" She imagined it, Littlefinger — _Petyr_ — laying her down on a big, soft mattress and stripping her slowly, or simply lifting her skirts to bare the essence of herself to his gaze, his touch.

She found herself aching at the thought, and didn’t try to stop the arch of her back as a shudder ran through her. This is recklessness, this is danger. Is this what it feels to be free?

He straightened his long coat, smoothed his hair with his hands, and met her eyes with a hunger she finally understood.

“I’ll show you everything.”


	7. Little Fingers

Alayne’s sleep the previous night, such as it was, was fitful at the least. When she woke — early, just as instructed, and wasn’t that a strange thrill? — it felt as if she hadn’t slept at all.

After the heady frenzy of Littlefinger’s sinful words and expert hands had ebbed, she spent many of the small hours laying stiff as a plank and wide awake, brow furrowed in thought over just what it was she thought she was doing, playing such a dangerous game with Petyr Baelish when she was so unlearned.

She had a hold on him, that much she had well confirmed. She held him in sway with her body, her innocence, her lady mother’s blood coursing through her. And most of all, he thinks me clever. Perhaps, she found herself hoping, even clever like him. Nobody else would have named prim little Sansa Stark a keen mind. She was well read, yes, but that stupid girl chose to fill her head with lies, stories of gallantry and dragonflies and happiness.

But tucked within that wasted time, Sansa learned the houses great and small — their sigils, their loyalties, their victories and defeats. All so she could be the perfect, proper lady when she was someday lucky enough to find herself at court. And then, finally, came the terrible day she arrived in King’s Landing and her real life began.

There she watched, she listened, and she stayed quiet until she learned to safely speak. Until Littlefinger taught her about lies, until he killed Joffrey and Dontos and sailed her away. _There are two sorts of people, the players and the pieces,_ she remembered him telling her over a bowl of fruit one evening on his cold, dank ship on their way to the Vale. _Every man’s a piece to start with, and every maid as well._

Was she yet a piece, aboard that ship? She supposed so. Even now, she strove to prove herself a player, lied prettily, hung on to every bit of information she learned, and still found herself unsure.

She pictured him, that night on the open sea. He had been eating a pomegranate with the point of his dagger, seed by seed. It was slow work, she remembered noting, but he had patience, and one by one they all disappeared neatly into his mouth. Sansa had chosen a pear, and though she tried, the juices of it ran down her chin and over her fingers. He had chided her for it with a fondness and a fascination. _Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean._

But that wasn’t what he wanted from her this morning. He wanted her fingers slick to the knuckle, he wanted them filthy. He wanted her to touch, to feel, to learn some base and ancient magic. He wanted to see what that knowledge looked like on her. He didn’t want to be in the room, didn’t want to watch or touch for himself, but he wanted to dictate when and how she pleased herself. Because more than anything, he wanted her to know that even when it was her own hand, it was him bringing her body to this undiscovered place.

To her horror and her joy, Alayne wanted it too, wanted all of it. There was a funny sort of power in that, she had realized sometime in the night. She considered all that had been taken from her in her time: her family, her freedom, her dignity. But all of that was past and done, and she would never allow it again. If Littlefinger was to train her, body and mind, it was to be because she chose it. He kissed her in the snow, but she had asked for everything that followed, each time pushing further, craving more. He only ever took what was given. _If I am to play this game, then play I shall. And oh, but there is fun in it._

She dressed quick as she could, though her fingers shook. She had half-donned her smallclothes before she remembered her uncle didn’t want her to wear them. She felt a warmth spread within her as she pushed them back down and folded them neatly away.

Her shift and gown came next, and for once Alayne was thankful for the simplicity of her new clothing. She donned her stockings and shoes, the slide of her bare thighs touching beneath so much fabric unfamiliar, but more than welcome.

The last was her hair. She bent to pick up her comb, still in its discarded place on the floor by the vanity. She sat to brush her dull brown locks quickly, and fumbled slightly with the pins in her haste to put it up. All the while, she felt the anticipation pooling within her, dampening her sex.

Finally, she was ready. Her belongings were packed, and Royce’s men would load their litters while they broke their fast. All that was left for her to do at the Gates was her uncle’s bidding.

She inspected herself in the mirror, and couldn’t help the feeling that she was looking at herself for the first time, or maybe the last. She got herself comfortable on the bed, feeling strange to be fully clothed, the heels of her shoes catching lightly on the sheet as she eased her legs apart. As she lifted her skirts, she relished the feeling of fabric against her, first on her stockings, then on bare skin from the knee up. She pooled the fabric around her, and fluttered her fingertips from her thighs to her belly and back down, closing her eyes.

What would he do, if he were here? How would he begin? She imagined his hands, not terribly much larger than hers, but broader and a little more rough. He’d have a surety to his touch. She flattened her hands against her stomach and slid them down, down, down. Alayne was slick, the feeling of it against her fingers was warm velvet, unlike anything she had ever known. She traced the whole of her folds with both her hands, determined to know each detail, determined to learn.

She gasped at her own touch, smiling in astonishment that she could surprise herself so. She kept her left hand still, and her right moved to the apex of her folds. With two fingers, she felt around in circles — just as he taught her, she thought with a hard huff of breath — until she could feel a little nub that set a spark through her.

Her whole body tensed with a sensation completely unknown, but overtook her wholly. It was almost too much, but she tried again with a lighter touch and after a few moments, Alayne felt herself chasing a glimmering feeling low in her gut. Her hips began to buck and she tried to keep her legs relaxed, but the muscles tensed and released with no rhythm at all.

She was well and truly wet now, dripping down onto her thighs. How would he touch her? What would he say? _He’d be growling in my ear, most like, telling me how good I am for him, how obedient. He’d want me to let myself go, he said he’d show me everything…_ Her fingers were soaked from her efforts, just as he wanted, and the knowledge of how pleased he’d be with her had Alayne biting back a shout.

The glimmer in her belly brightened and took hold within her, like a key fitting into a lock. She opened herself to it, knew it was about to happen, now, now, now — and the bright-white heat within her exploded all around, brilliant as the wildfire at the Blackwater, but nothing like the Blackwater at all, because this was so impossibly wonderful, an avalanche of pure bliss, whiting out everything in her body, everything in the world, so only joy remained.

She melted back onto the bed, panting. When she found the strength, she brought her hand up to her face. _My uncle will be pleased indeed,_ she thought as she admired her wet fingers. Feeling invulnerable, she let her tongue reach out to taste herself. It was strange, but sweet in a way, with an earthiness that made her feel grounded, undeniably real within the web of lies that was her life.

She looked to the window; the sun was still on the rise, she had time yet.

 

 

Alayne managed to bring herself to ecstasy twice more before she knew herself to be due for breakfast. On shaky legs that felt weak as a babe’s, she stood and carefully smoothed her skirts down around her. She thought briefly of wiping her soiled hand on a cloth, but no. If her uncle wanted to see, then Alayne would have him see all.

She checked her hair in the mirror; she had done her best not to thrash against the pillows, but she still found she needed to quickly tame a few errant strands.

This time as she walked down the corridor to the hall, Littlefinger was not at table, but waiting for her by the open door. To anyone else, her uncle’s face would be impassive. But he wasn’t looking at anyone else, just Alayne, as if he could see through to her very bones.

She felt his eyes on her cheeks, still pink from her exertion and embarrassent, on her bitten lips, her unsteady legs. She saw wonder in those eyes, and pride, and a need as if he wanted to press her back to the wall, shove away her skirts and feel her still-pulsing heat for himself. She blushed anew and gave him a small smile.

As she got close enough to touch, she offered her right hand to him in greeting. _Let us see how you like what you missed, uncle,_ she thought. It was a move bolder than any she had ever made. His eyes darkened impossibly more as he took her hand by her sticky, filthy fingers and brought it to his mouth to kiss.

Her eyes widened and she fought not to react as his tongue darted out to taste and his eyes fluttered closed like she was sweetest honey in the world. He held on to her fingers as he lowered her hand.

"I trust you had a good morning, Alayne?" he whispered with some effort, his thumb stroking her still-tacky skin.

"Oh yes, uncle," she breathed, letting her eyes glass over slightly at the sight of their joined hands. "The very best." A thrill went through her as she watched him suppress a shudder. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and his mouth hovered by her ear.

“You’ve done so well, sweetling. So well. Tonight, I’m going to lick you until you drench me.”

With that, he released her and stepped back, suddenly leaving Alayne utterly dazed and bereft. _He means to put his mouth on me, to take me with his tongue._ Her wonderment must have shown — _you must learn to better guard yourself_ — because he grinned like a cat as he backed toward the door to the hall, quickly licking the pad of his thumb clean before turning on his heels to join the others at table.


	8. The Easy Road

The day was bright enough one could forget that autumn was, slowly but with great determination, giving way to winter. Alayne and Lord Robert would spend the whole of it in a shared litter on the day-long ride to Gulltown. It was a port city well known to Lord Baelish, bustling with activity: merchants and sailors and mummers and whores. Eyes, ears, and swords everywhere.

The road they would take passed through the Vale of Arryn, following rivers lined with greenery, away from the biting cold of the mountains. The ride would be easy, but though it had been two full days since Lord Robert had last been ahorse, the boy had neither the strength nor skill to ride alone. He could not be seen riding into the city lolling, slump-shouldered in his saddle with Alayne cradling him like a babe. As long as he yet lived, Lord Robert must at least give the appearance of moderate health, else he must make no appearance at all.

And so Alayne found herself standing between her two traveling companions just outside the castle gates, assessing the small wooden enclosure. It was modest but comfortable, with large, solid wheels and muslin curtains for privacy. Inside, she could see the whole of it was lined with cushions. It would serve quite well, and Alayne was grateful: riding a horse with no smallclothes was a fate she would rather not suffer. _Did he take pains to ensure my comfort, knowing I would be so ill-clothed today?_ The thought thrilled her, the intricacies of his designs at once exciting and fearsome. She thought of a necklace she wore but once, on a terrible, wonderful day…

Alayne squeezed Robin’s hand.

“Lord Robert, would you care to make yourself comfortable in the litter? We shall ride to Gulltown like a king and queen, you and I.” Sweetrobin’s wide, watery eyes lit up — he did so love to be puffed up like a proud little bird — and he near bounded to the litter. “I shall join you in the blink of an eye, promise,” she called after him.

Alayne and her uncle were now as alone as they could be while out in the open, Royce’s men all busied themselves loading packs on horses, paces and paces away. It had been divulged to Alayne that one of Nestor’s swords, Lothor Brune, had in fact been in Littlefinger’s own long-time employ and would accompany them to Gulltown. To what end, Alayne could not yet be sure, but she had little trepidation when it came to the broad man. He seemed even-keeled enough, and genial, though she would never be so injudicious as to call any man kind, not anymore.

She finally dared to hazard a sidelong glance at Littlefinger. His countenance, cool and calm, betrayed none of their secret meetings of the last days. Only Alayne’s own vivid memories of his harsh whispers, flashing eyes, and searching hands assured her they were real at all. In the light of the sun, his focus was on the game of thrones. She did not pretend to know the half of his secrets, but he was teaching her to think as he did, to truly observe people the way he did. She knew this man would not harm her, not after her mother, not after the pains he had taken to keep her safe, not after he started taking to visiting her in the night to whisper plans political and carnal. But she did not yet trust him.

He would tell her that was wise, Alayne thought. _And then, were we truly alone, he might tell me to spread my legs._

Lord Baelish’s eyes were on Robert, struggling to get his bony limbs inside the litter, even as one of Royce’s men lifted him like he weighed no more than a housecat to help him inside. The boy was a liability, Alayne knew, one of the weakest pieces on the playing board, and deteriorating with each turn of the moon. The death of his mother did the little lord no favors, either. Littlefinger had scant love for enduring, unrelenting weakness, and he barely bothered to hide his scorn for the boy. Littlefinger would yet see Robert dead, for lack of utility to his purpose.

But sickly as he was, Robert remained the key to the Vale, and Littlefinger had need of him. _Unless he is become so bold as to believe he has no need of anyone,_ Alayne thought. That would not do.

"Would that we could ride together in that litter," she began. "Were it so, I am sure it would be a most comfortable journey indeed." Alayne cast her eyes downward, lashes fluttering. "But I understand I must be possessed of a certain… patience."

He looked her over, searching.

“It is a virtue indeed, sweetling.” _He senses you are after something. Choose your words with care, Alayne, they are your shields and swords alike._

"I shall speak with Lord Robert as we ride, uncle."

"Oh? And what will you say?" His face gave her nothing, not yet.

"Words of encouragement. I seek to remind him — gently — of who I am to him, now. He has love for me, depends on me, he will listen." She spoke carefully, she was overstepping the boundaries of every arrangement they had. And for what? For Robert? She saw frustration blossom in his eyes, but Alayne pressed on. If Littlefinger wanted to keep this little mockingbird, he must be prepared to hear her song.

She spoke softly, calmly, sweetly. She spoke the truth. “The sweetsleep will serve in times of need, but he will need to go without for periods. He will have need to speak, and he must know what to say. Sweetsleep is a powerful substance, I fear, and dangerous if not doled out with a temperate hand.” Is that not also what Littlefinger needs? A woman’s temperance?

Lord Baelish did not hide his scowl, though it was quick.

“And yet, the maesters contend it may be the most pleasant way to pass.” He paused, tugging his lips into a tight smile. “Although, I suppose one must needs ask the lady Myranda’s late husband to be quite sure.” A jape, a deflection, a flit of the wing. But Alayne was stone, and would not be so easily carried away from her purpose. Once you know what a man wants, you know who he is, and how to move him.

“You are the Lord Protector, and the sharpest mind in Westeros besides. No doubt that were Lord Robert to suddenly… succumb, you would find the means to hold your seat.” Littlefinger turned to face her, tight set jaw daring her to lose her nerve to continue. Alayne met his gaze and took a breath. She would not bend. _Today of all days, I am a woman made new._

“Forgive me, I am but a bastard girl, of no great mind for matters of state. But perhaps, were Robert to pass, the Lords Declarant may seek to remove you. In which case, no doubt Nestor Royce would raise up men to your defense. Perhaps the Lords themselves may fracture, if you have come to count one of them among your friends in secret. Waynwood? Corbray? It would be chaos, it would be spectacular, and uncle, I have no doubt that you would rise above it.”

Lord Baelish said nothing for a fair while. Instead he looked to her with pride, surprise, anger, interest — his face was a stormcloud raining buckets on them both. Alayne’s hands twitched at her sides. Finally, he spoke.

“Interestingly extrapolated. The Vale would indeed be in flux, so to speak, were such a tragedy to befall my dear stepson. But why do I sense you have more to say on the matter?”

Alayne stepped forward, just barely toeing into his space.

“The Vale would burn. Castles and cottages alike, meeting the same fate as Winterfell.” Petyr looked at her, truly looked, as he never had before. Questioning, as if seeing something in her for the first time.

“Someday, before you wish it, Robert will die, Alayne. No amount of mothering can prevent it.”

"Aye, it is doubtful he will live to see his sixteenth name day. And I have no great love for Sweetrobin Arryn. He would mouth at my teats in the night at the Eyrie. He is obstinate, spoiled, soft. I confess, my greatest joy of recent memory is of slapping his snotty face. One of my greatest joys, I should say, this morning’s discoveries excepted.” _That’s it, Alayne. Let him remember what you did for him. What you will do._ “But his death now would mean nothing but swords. And swords are the weapons of a lesser man, you taught me that. With Lord Robert alive, and myself to keep him so as long as the gods will allow, your seat is near effortlessly secure. The boy is no threat to us. And while he lives, we may yet have time to set our sights on loftier goals than the holding of the Vale.”

It seemed an age before he responded, and Alayne barely dared breathe. Finally, he took her hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss. She tried her best to still it, but he noticed the shake in her fingers, grinning near cruelly against her skin. _He knows me to be yet green, a summer girl in a winter world. I must steel myself._ He nipped at her knuckles with his teeth as he lifted his head to speak. He lowered their joined hands, but did not release her.

"It would seem that this player would move her first piece. Well then, it must be so. But I shall be watching little Robert’s progress. Know this, my sweet, clever Alayne: I despise bad investments. Should the boy prove to count among them, I will take measures, and you will not stop me." Alayne stopped her eyes from widening, but only just. He squeezed her fingers in his own and tipped his head toward her ever so slightly. His voice was low, serious, raw. "Mark me, I do all for your protection. Now that I have you — and someday, when you beg me for it, I do mean to have you — I will let nothing and no one take you from me."

He loosed her hand and backed away like stepping out of a fog, leaving Alayne alone amongst the clouds. His face was again a mask, that of a doting uncle to a kind and simple girl.

“Have a most pleasant journey, Alayne. We shall speak again on our arrival. In fact, I shall escort you to your rooms myself.” He turned toward Lothor Brune and their waiting horses without a second glance at Alayne. _Show nothing, there are eyes even now._

Alayne moved as if in a dream to the litter, climbing inside and spreading her arms to invite Robert to lay his snotty, spit-stained face upon her breast to dribble freely onto her cape. All thoughts of danger, horror, pride, and the wretched, beautiful want that permeated the very air around her, must be packed away for the moment. She must be singular in her present purpose.

She curled her arm around Robert’s frail shoulders and ran her fingers softly through his hair as the horses whinnied and started them on their way.

"Oh, my Lord Robert, I am unspeakably relieved to be riding with one so brave and powerful as you." A sleepy grin was the boy’s response. "Might I confess to you? I long for the day when you and I are wed. It was your lady mother’s wish, you know, and mine as well. Which is why it pains me so to say that our betrothal must be long. These are dark times, and it is not safe for me."

"But I am the Lord of the Vale! The Eyrie is impregnable! And anyone who tries to hurt you, I’ll make them fly! I’ll —" The sudden remembrance of his once-precious Moon Door made Robert wither in her arms.

"Lord Robert, you know not how much those words mean to me. The Eyrie is indeed the safest place, but The Eyrie is not where we find ourselves, and winter is coming. My family is dead, killed by those who would do the same to me, and they are everywhere. And so I must hide in plain sight, and I must depend on my betrothed to protect me. I am too weak to survive alone. May we share this secret, you and I? May I count on you to keep me safe?"

Robert nodded with such an enthusiasm as she’d never seen him offer anything but his mother’s teat. “Only tell me how, Sansa, and I will do it. You’ll see.”

"Alayne, Lord Robert. Promise me, you _must_ call me Alayne." 


End file.
